So I Stayed in the Darkness with You
by Elfreida
Summary: Slash. Zombie!lock...sort of. Inspired by TekaWolf's 'What Comes After'. The Dead rose up to devour the Living, and the world fell apart...mostly. But for the ex-army doctor and his detective, caught in the ruins of civilization. Can they find a way to survive the madness? Or will love alone not be enough when the abyss stares back? One of them has already fallen...
1. Introducing Life

**_Prologue: Introducing Life_**

His nerves were singing. Like a chorus of birds from the dawn of the world, they were _sparking, sighing, igniting; _sending a cacophony of data to a brain which ought long ago to have stopped being able to process it. And yet there it was.

"_John…_"

Well, in retrospect, it was only about as strange as the rest of the things that'd happened to his body. His transport had been infected, killed, brought back, and now if felt like it was…_transforming._

"What is it?" The doctor sounded as exhausted as he looked, but at Sherlock's utterance he sought his friend. John's soft eyes met his – a deep, satin blue in the light from the fire – and a crinkle appeared in his brow. "Sherlock?"

The detective could only stare, almost at the point of being overwhelmed. How he had not noticed the importance of touch until it was out of reach; gone in the storm with almost everything else. With single-minded determination, he had gradually picked up the shattered pieces of his existence – his sight, proper movement, speech, memory – but this…

"Mate, are you okay?"

John rose from his chair (aching; the pain in his leg not truly faded, tired. Always tired) and crossed to where Sherlock stood before the mirror. How many times had John held that look? Even after everything he cared, _always cared. _Irrationally; horrifyingly sometimes. He did the most idiotic, _stupid_, sentimental things – keeping Sherlock even after the detective had been bitten. Risking everything by letting him back into his life. _Staying_.

Before (Before, as in The Before) he'd been astonished that the doctor didn't simply walk out, considering how abysmal a flatmate he'd been. Now he was left unable to think past the unerring, unchangeable _fact._

"What am I?" He growled lowly. John blinked, shaking his head. Sherlock reached out a hand that was as pale as…well; actually it was white with a little tinge of blue, but that wasn't the issue now. The hand was shaking. It stopped millimetres from John's face and faltered. The doctor's eyes fluttered shut. The man was so _tired _– nightmares almost every night. When he found sleep at all.

Released from the necessity of actually sleeping, Sherlock had taken to his latest attempt at re-acquiring his skill with the violin. With his better moments, he'd played the songs he knew would bring John peace, but it wasn't nearly often enough. He listened for sounds of the approaching Dead, and to his flatmate whimpering in the dark.

"Drop it." John murmured eyes still shut. "Please…please, Sherlock." His eyelids slid open, voice void of everything but the quiet weariness. "I can't do this now."

"You said…" the detective bit his lip and almost moaned. Not the drawn, rattling moan of every other Dead on the planet, but a real, _honest moan. _And then…

"Sherlock, you're shivering." John's eyes were wide, all traces of fatigue banished to the winds. "Actually shivering, I mean like – like – oh my God…"

"Yes John, I'm quite aware of that bit." Sherlock breathed impatiently, trying to fight the effect the barrage of sensation was having on him.

"But…but…you can't –" John was shaking his head, voice breaking (heart rate elevated, breathing compromised, eyes moist). "You can't –" he was backing away, voice firmer, head shaking in denial.

"_John, please_." He hated how desperate, how _hoarse _he sounded. But it was as if he was being hit with a tidal wave, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He walked (walked, not shuffled, no, used his leg muscles and fucking _walked_) towards his retreating companion. His only companion. His _friend_.

"_John…_"

They had not touched, not once. Not since…not even when he finally was forced to reveal to John that he remembered. That he was _him _and not a shambling corpse. The reason was because of the unspoken danger still lingering in the air: that at any moment, the Hunger would come and Sherlock would no longer be Sherlock, but a ravenous, soulless monster. The worst bit being that the longer this went on, the more likely John would simply let it happen.

_Whereas Sherlock would not. Could not._

Also he was still outwardly rotting, giving most normal people less incentive for physical contact anyway. Except that…it wasn't that simple. The Dead rotted. Or at least the older ones that couldn't hunt so well did. And yet those that fed often were different – markedly. They remained while their fellows wasted away; a terrible parody of their former selves, yet still there. Slowly becoming something else entirely. And Sherlock –

He'd cleaned up. They'd found ways. It was tricky and the unpleasant truth that the best thing he could do for himself was feed was something they'd both been forced to live with. They'd worked out a routine, or something close. And the effect was…

"Sherlock stop." The former detective obeyed instantly, forcing his mind to the present. Only now did he realise he'd backed John up against the wall. He stared at John. _His John. Oh, John…_

"Why didn't you go?" He asked roughly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Lestrade asked you to come with him. Begged you. After I died. You didn't. Why?"

John didn't answer, but his blue eyes glassed. Water welled slowly in their depths and spilled silently down the worn cheeks. Sherlock shook his head, raven hair betraying the tremors wracking his body.

"Why. Didn't. You. Leave?"

"No."

"Why?"

"No."

"_John!_"

"I wouldn't."

Sherlock had never been able to read emotions, or sentiment, but he couldn't fail to miss the implication. He shook his head once more as he stumbled back from the doctor.

"_Why?_" His voice choked on itself, unable to accept the truth. What _he _had done. What he had condemned the only man on earth whom he truly cared for to.

"I couldn't leave you." The doctor answered simply, smiling as the tears rolled softly past his lips. And then Sherlock _knew_ he could feel again; that it wasn't just some gimmick of his deceased nerve-endings. That something had happened beyond anyone's ability to predict or comprehend. He didn't even realise he'd sunk to the floor until the roughness of the carpet touched his knees. His hands hung by his sides. He looked wordlessly, helplessly, into his doctor's eyes, silent heart quietly breaking.

Until something wet dripped off his chin.

"_Oh come on!_" John roared, tears still falling, yet suddenly furious. "How the hell can you have tear ducts – you're dead! You're FUCKING DEAD, SHERLOCK!"

The Dead stayed still as John plunged to his own knees and grabbed the blue silk shirt he was still managing to wear by the collar.

"I love you – _I love you, you_ _utter bastard!_ More than I can bear, but doesn't mean you're _not,_ _and how the fuck can you be crying?_"

Sherlock felt as if he'd been frozen to the spot and lit on fire at the same time. He couldn't think at all. All he could do was stare mutely at John, disbelief and wonder crashing mercilessly through him.

"How –" suddenly the doctor looked straight into his eyes, as if seeing something for the first time. "_What are you?_" He breathed, anger still firing, echoing back Sherlock's question as he frantically opened the buttons of Sherlock's shirt (what was he _doing?_). "_What are you…_"

Sherlock's mouth opened wide as John's hands contacted his skin, but he was still unable to make a single move or sound. The avalanche of sensation swamped his ability to do more than gawp. The doctor didn't stop though, he didn't even pause. His practiced fingers finished the job just enough to do what he needed to and wrenched Sherlock's shoulder out of the material.

"_Impossible,_" he breathed, skimming a violently trembling hand over the flawless skin of the detective's upper arm. "_Impossible…what…_"

There should've been a half-moon shaped bite where muscle had been torn ruthlessly from bone. At one of the last sensations his arm had ever had, the man shuddered. John's attention snapped back to his face.

"_You…_"

"Well that's…new." Sherlock said the first coherent thing that came to mind. John's eyes went glassy again. Not watery-glassy, but entirely-defocussed-glassy and the ex-detective had to catch him before he slumped all the way to the side.

"_Shherlock…_"

Sherlock stared. He opened his mouth once or twice. He was lost. The Undecided's hand's tightened around John's arms in a grip that would've, given any other time or place, caused his knuckles to go white. As it happened, they already were.

"What. Am. I?"

"_You're Sherlock Holmes._" The doctor slurred, running a hand absently across the detective's face and into his hair (and making it seem as if planets had collided). "_You're Sherlock Holmes…_"

He smiled softly as his eyes shut, stroking Sherlock's hair with a gentleness that held the world perfectly still around them. _It was okay, _he seemed to say. _Okay._ Sherlock watched his friend slip into peace, catching his arm when it finally fell. Slender fingers tentatively found the pulse thrumming in his wrist and held it, letting the rhythm caress his inexplicably responsive pads until his own, still, chest echoed with it. He didn't understand.

He laid John on the floor, never once taking his eyes of his friend's expression of absolute serenity. It occurred to him that he should probably do something with the time, but the thought was far-off. He stayed on the floor with John, counting the beats of the Living's heart until the morning sun filtered through the window.

* * *

_**A.N: Well, this is what happens when your brain goes into 'escape' mode for exams and starts thinking up stories at one and two in the morning. Probably needs editing, but here's the first rendition anyway. My fulfilment of the post-apocalyptic setting (because, and I need to reiterate this, I am the World Procrastination Champion). Title obviously taken from the lyrics of Florence Welsh's Cosmic Love (album: Lungs). Song came to mind. **_

_**Oh - and COMPLETELY inspired by the fic "What Comes After" by TekaWolf. Wonderfully written still-in-progress zombie-apocalypse Sherlock. Took several things from it. Would be accused of stealing if it was any other site, but this is Fanfiction and I've fallen in love with the idea so much that I wrote this. Go figure. And read "What Comes After". **_

_**Would love any thoughts, opinions, reviews - or just confirmation that I'm not just some mental posting strange romance stories at four in the morning ;D**_


	2. Where We Were

**_Chapter One: Where We Were_**

John knew when the BBC finally stopped broadcasting that that was it. It was really happening. The world was being consumed in a firestorm and all they could do was batten down the hatches and pray. Ironically it had happened only months after John's world had collapsed anyway. Moriarty's last gift to the world. When the first reports of a new virus began spreading, he'd nearly ignored it, too wrapped up in his own misery to care. Then the mad bastard, who'd apparently not really been dead, turned up to point out that the recently infected dead were the ones responsible for the horrific murders that were beginning to turn up.

John liked to think, liked to _hope_, that between them they gave people time. It didn't matter in the end. The terror in the dark corners spilled inevitably into the daylight; the violence suddenly in the streets. Then it was all over. It happened so fast…

Thank god for Mycroft. In the space of a few hours, the doctor finally came down from the thought that they could save the world (a silly sentiment, maybe, but one he held to) to the knowledge that they had to save each other. There was Lestrade, Molly, a handful of yarders, a few other people who'd sought sanctuary with them and Mycroft, always the man with the plan. As John and Sherlock ran round trying desperately to salvage anyone they could, the Elder Holmes had arranged for a convoy to the Holmes' manor in Dorset.

John remembered with a hollow laugh the first thing that'd come to mind at that. He'd actually decided that he'd rather face the zombies than Sherlock and Mycroft in the same house.

Then he'd been introduced to how wrong things could go.

They were nearly ready to leave – all that was left were the last few bits of supplies. The phone towers were still working (thank god) and they were coordinating in pairs to get medicine, ammunition, food, fuel, tea: the real essentials. Mrs Hudson, her sister in tow, was keeping track of the proceedings from Dorset. It somehow made things bearable knowing she was already (relatively) safe. He tried not to think about his sister. What with everything going on, it was easier than he thought it would be. He'd resigned himself to the fact she was going to drink herself to death a while back. A zombie apocalypse might just do the trick.

Sherlock didn't ask. Mind you, the man always seemed to know what he was thinking, regardless of how John tried to hide it. It was this that made it all the more astonishing the detective hadn't figured out what John had decided while he was 'dead'. That if John had any say in the rest of his life, he would spend it growing old with Sherlock Holmes. Every time.

Of course, the world was a cold-hearted bitch and, naturally, the choice would never be his. It happened when they were returning from St Bart's. Four of them. The first went down with a blow from the crowbar, but they'd somehow managed to appear from nowhere, trapping them against the walls of the alley. John kicked, swung, drew the gun…he heard Sherlock's bellow of pain without really registering what it was.

Blood. There was so much blood. Gushing endlessly from the point where the monstrosity had ripped open the coat and torn into Sherlock's arm. But that was okay – they had bandages. They had stitches. They had antibiotics. They could _fix _this.

"John,"

"No."

"John –"

"Shut up."

"John we need to get back to the Yard."

The doctor's hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold the tourniquet in place.

"Yeah," he said absently, jerkily pulling the material taut. "Yeah, we'll do that, then we'll...we'll clean it up. Get you –"

"_John…_"

"You'll be okay, we'll –"

"John, _the YARD!_"

That was when the doctor took in the agony bleeding across his friend's face; the stubborn stoicism and imperiousness that was so _Sherlock_. He felt as if all the buildings in the city were falling; tumbling down around him, yet at the same time he was completely deaf. His head was wrapped in cotton wool and his body felt numb. Except for a slight vertigo.

"Right." He said…or assumed he said, anyway. The vibrations left his throat without him really hearing them. "Right. Yard."

It was the longest walk he'd ever taken. He had Sherlock's uninjured arm pulled across his back the entire time, letting the detective slump into his neck. Any other time, neither of them would've been seen dead in that position: Sherlock because he was ridiculously proud and John because people would talk. But no one was watching. And nothing mattered any more. It was just them, Sherlock's heartbeat thundering next to his own. He never wanted that walk to end. Never wanted to stop.

Sherlock was shaking, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. He was in pain. _Such pain. _They'd both seen it; the way the fever burned through the body until there was nothing left. Then the body died and the monster replaced it.

John remembered stopping. Dead. In front of the Yard, he stilled completely and pulled Sherlock hard into his side. Now he felt like he was falling through the ground.

"It's going to be alright." He whispered, feeling like a broken record. Sherlock pressed his face gently into his neck, mumbling something that sounded like _'don't be an idiot, John.'_

They walked in. Greg spotted them. Words were spoken. A lot of words. Sherlock delivered the report, true to form, before throwing up hard into a bucket. There was Mycroft. The soulless git said something, and then Lestrade was holding his arms pinioned to his sides so John couldn't punch him into next week.

"_John._" The only sound the army doctor would ever have stopped for came in a rasp from where the detective had slumped against the wall.

"What…what do you want me to do?"

A crease appeared in the sculpted brow as if he didn't understand the question.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said softly.

"NO – _just, just STOP for a minute, will you, just stop it._"

"You can't help him."

John shook his head emphatically, unable to stop, unable to let it be real.

"_John._"

"What can I do?" He looked helplessly at Sherlock, voice breaking heedlessly. The detective held his gaze, sweat cresting his skin like a dusting of stars.

"_Just…_" his face contorted with a low groan. "_Home. Home, John._"

"Okay."

There were few words after that. John barely noticed anything at all as he pulled Sherlock back over his shoulders and let Greg take them to the car. Mycroft came along as well. And a couple of others seeing as how Baker Street was usually only _mostly _quiet. By the time they got there, Sherlock was shivering as if they were in the Antarctic, eyelids fluttering against the rage of heat.

Without a word, John pulled him into his arms. It wouldn't be long now. A few hours were all it took – if that – but as far as John was concerned it could be an eternity and a half. He murmured soft nonsense into sweat-dampened curls and felt the boiling body clutch more closely to him. He heard Greg thank the drivers and felt vaguely confused as both he and Mycroft escorted John into the flat, confident it was secure after the steps Sherlock had taken in the start. Two doors; locked and bolted and reinforced. No other way in or out. Windows boarded solidly. Upstairs was more loosely secured, but then again the detective had blocked off the windows in both bedrooms, planned multiple areas of sanctuary (or holding, if need be) and left the main window clear, first making entirely sure the outer wall was impossible to scale.

Still, he wasn't clear on why Lestrade and Mycroft had joined him until Greg pointed out with an expression of incredulity that they were hardly _not _going to be there. Sherlock had said something at this, but it misted insensibly over John's neck and was lost entirely. John shushed him and staggered to the sofa, unable to bear even Sherlock's thin body for much longer. Still, that didn't make him let go. Nothing in the world could've made him do that. He sat back, let the detective's weight fall over him, and held him tighter, smiling gently against his hair.

"Um, do you want me to…make tea?" Greg muttered, shrugging hopelessly.

"That would be very thoughtful of you, thank you." Mycroft replied, still the epitome of politeness. John suspected that even as a zombie, he would graciously apologise for his foods' inconvenience.

"Well," he said evenly, examining his slightly battered umbrella as Greg disappeared into the kitchen. "I had wondered when this day would come –" He raised a hand as John looked up, mouth opened to snap a retort. "You know well his life was dangerous before this all began and that he would have it no other way. The incident at St Bartholomew's was enough to demonstrate that my prediction would eventually prove correct."

John had nothing to say to that. Yes, there would've been no growing old. Only running and dodging the bullets until at last he stopped. And Mycroft was sickeningly right in that Sherlock would've laughed at the very idea of doing it differently. John stroked a thumb gently over his ear.

"I always told him that caring was not an advantage." The Elder Holmes said quietly, eyes focusing finally on the fading shell of his little brother.

"Yeah…" John felt like glass was being broken in his throat.

"I see now that I was not…entirely correct."

"_What?_"

Mycroft reached up a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, looking more tired than John had ever seen him. Finally he lowered it, face carefully blank of emotion.

"My brother has always been alone. For many reasons he preferred it that way. We are similar in that respect, although I see and cultivate the value of others more readily." John snorted at this, but the man continued anyway. "I once asked you what we might deduce about his heart, and I confess I still do not know. He had the chance to stay with my own people when all of this began, yet he asked to return to London. To this city of his. And to you."

John looked up, staring at Mycroft as if seeing him for the first time.

"He would not hear of abandoning you. I thought you should know this, since it's unlikely now he'll have the opportunity to tell you himself. What might have come of it, I wonder?" He shook his head. "I was always sceptical of the dear doctor he considered his one friend; the exception to the drudge of humanity.

"Know this then, Doctor Watson. I am…grateful that he has you. Now at the end."

John felt Mycroft's piercing eyes look him over with a slight frown, but the former British Government said nothing more, accepting his tea with practiced decorum.

"Jesus." Lestrade breathed, turning sharply away. John just closed his eyes, willing it all to just _stop._ He didn't want to open them again. He could feel Sherlock's heavy breaths shuddering through his own body and focused on that. On his best friend as he slipped away further than he could follow. _On the man he –_

* * *

"John?"

He must have fallen asleep. With a shock of panic, he tightened his arms around the body pressed to him – _still breathing. Still breathing._ Everything was tearing. He felt as if he was being reaved in twain, the panic replaced by a pain so fierce it was like being crushed. His breath ripped apart and he heaved up a sob. The man standing over him seemed to fall back.

"John we have to go." Lestrade's broken murmur only made him tighten his hold on Sherlock, rocking erratically, eyes screwing shut.

"John –"

"_Stop._" It was amazing he managed to make any sound at all, considering.

"John you have to come with us."

"_Not yet._"

"Do you really wish to stay for that?"

Sherlock's body gave a sudden, seismic shudder and John clutched at his hair.

"I have to…" his voice was so erratic. He had no idea what the end of that sentence was going to be, but he was suddenly dry of tears, bloodless and shaking like a leaf. "I…"

"There's nothing more you can do." Mycroft's voice came calmly from the direction of the door. _Fuck that!_

"PLEASE JOHN!" Greg lost it. He dived forwards and tried to pull the doctor to his feet, but not for nothing had John once been a soldier. He pulled his arm away from Lestrade's fingers as if they were so much cotton string.

"PLEASE! YOU CAN'T DO THIS, MATE, _PLEASE!_"

Now it was Mycroft who was holding back the DI, keeping him in a surprisingly strong hold as John gazed at him from the settee. Mycroft was giving him that look again, the same look as before. As if he knew what John had yet to voice and was too selfish to stop it.

And yet all this was rendered academic as a horrid, screeching howl erupted around them, emanating from the detective as his hands fisted in John's shirt.

"_John!_"

It was as if all his energy had been being saved up for this.

"Doctor Watson –"

"_Basement!_"

"What?"

"_Now, John!_"

Another howl ripped its way from the dying man and John was powerless to refuse. More words, more screaming, Lestrade beating them down the stairs and wrenching open the door. And suddenly Sherlock was out of his arms and slamming the door in front of him, barring John from so much as entering the room.

"Sherlock!"

He could hear the detective's ragged breathing echoing through the basement flat; the slide of bolts against the door and the rattle of locks. _The git planned for this!_

"Sherlock!" He couldn't stop. He threw himself against the door. He screamed; the only important thing in the world to _get to Sherlock!_

"NO! _NO, PLEASE! _JUST –"

And then he realised the movements had stopped. The breathing still sounded on the other side, but it was really laboured now. John fell silent. There was a rushing in his ears, but he could at least hear his friend's last moments. _Oh God…_

"_Good-bye John._"

He wasn't even certain he heard the words. They seemed to come from too far away.

Then something slammed into the wood with a force like a charging rhino. Taken by surprise, John lurched back against the wall. Then slid slowly down. Without knowing when it happened, he found himself alone as the Dead clawed and moaned and crashed at the door.

At that moment the Living felt nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

He awoke to the warm sensation of sunlight streaming across his face. He was lying in the middle of the floor, a blanket tucked round him.

"Morning."

"How…did I fall asleep on the floor?"

"Oh, you passed out after discovering that my injury had healed."

"_Christ_." The doctor ran a hand over his face, feeling as if his head was full of sawdust.

"Tea?"

"You never make me tea. You can't feel the heat – you'll damage your hands." He ran another hand over his face. "Oh, what am I on about. You're dead. Burn's not going to make a hell of a difference."

He ignored Sherlock's confused expression as he lurched to his feet A little wobbly, he stumbled into the kitchen to fill the ancient whistling kettle he'd dug up and light the gas. Ironically, for the aftermath of a virtual mental breakdown he felt remarkably good. Result of the best sleep he'd had in three months, he supposed. He'd dreamt of Christmas in 221B and Sherlock's soft playing.

Out of habit, he drug two mugs off the shelf to fill with tea, only realising when the ex-detective picked his up and stared at it as if it was some strange mould culture he had yet to study.

"John…"

"Don't suppose we need to go out today." John said conversationally, going absently through the motions of making breakfast. "We've just fed you and I'm stocked up for the next few days. Fancy another round of poker with the marbles? Actually, I wouldn't mind going out to Whitehall for target practice again. Really works off stress."

"_John…_"

"And, I reckon that Tescos near the docks is worth another look at. Thank God for you and your map. Not that I would've done badly without it, but –"

"John, look at me."

The kettle hissed as John stilled, carefully putting down the bowl of muesli and soaked sultanas.

"John."

"What is it Sherlock?"

The detective was silent as the grave, forcing John to finally turn to face him as the kettle screeched. His hair, which had always been dark, had long since turned coal black, highlighting the blue-white skin stretched tightly across his cheeks and knuckles. He didn't look so…dead anymore. For weeks now, John thought he'd been going mad (even more mad than usual, and he was living with a zombie for Christ's sake!). But the late morning sun didn't lie. The decomposition had definitely halted enough to preserve a facsimile of functional skin and tissue, even so much as to have it look _inflated_. Except that was impossible.

He looked at the eyes. The eyes that were so pale, he could barely make out the milky outline of the iris even at this distance. It was like someone had drawn a sheet over the colouration, nearly blanking it entirely. Yet the pupils…_the pupils had made him lose sleep for a week._

One day he'd woken up to Sherlock commenting about a vast improvement to his vision. He'd faced the perched form of his friend and blanched, unable to speak. He had no idea why it was this that made him reel, but then again he'd always been fascinated with Sherlock's eyes.

That day the pupils had started dilating again. _Except that was impossible._

And now…

"What the hell, Sherlock?"

"Appropriate, but I was hoping you'd go into more detail." The ex-detective smiled slightly as he reached behind John for the gas. John just shook his head.

"Your body is regenerating itself." He said evenly. "Which is impossible. Mind you, this is _you_, so I don't know why I'm so surprised."

"The greater part of my central nervous system appears to have come back on line."

"_What?_"

"At first it was rather difficult to process, but I believe I will be able to adapt to the increased sensory input."

"Sherlock…the Dead don't _feel. _We'd know if they did! For the love of God, half the ones we take out have had their guts hanging round their necks or their faces clawed off!"

"And yet I _can _John." The sort-of-Dead breathed wondrously. The doctor stared at him, unconsciously reaching for the place where he'd discovered the disappearance of the bite.

"What the fuck did they make you, Sherlock?"

"I don't know."

"I thought I'd lost you." John whispered almost incoherently. The crease appeared in Sherlock's now truly moon-pale brow.

"And yet you stayed." He responded haltingly, as if unsure of his own words. "Because…you love me?"

John didn't know what to say. It was as true as the bodies slowly rotting on the streets beyond the door. Yet, now it had been said, he had no idea what to do. His whole purpose for forging on into a future that was completely unknown was standing before him, yet he was utterly without words for this eventuality. He had expected Sherlock to be repulsed; at the very least to be seriously uncomfortable and call him an idiot for forming such an erroneous attachment.

Not for Sherlock to stand frozen, inches from him, wearing the same expression of complete, gobsmacked disbelief as he had the night before.

"I love you." He couldn't think of anything else to say. "And I'd never leave you. It's just was _is_. Do with that what you want."

He shut his eyes. He didn't want to watch the ex-detective make his cursory deductions and regard him with _pity _or _confusion_ of whatever the hell he thought of it. He sighed and leant back into the side. After an age of neither of them moving a muscle, he frowned. He wanted to look, but somehow he'd lost his nerve between the confession and the backing away.

If he had, in retrospect, he might have been better prepared for something soft and icy cold suckering to his cheek.

* * *

_**A.N: Right. Most of a day I should've spent studying. Still, I think it's turned out okay. Probably needs editing as well. Um, bit fluffy I suppose, but I'm trying to balance it off with the romance and John's character in general (as well as putting him through hell, grins evilly).**_

_**Next chapter will be Sherlock's perspective again (just needed John's here to fill in the gaps a bit). Advancement on the romance as well - mainly because I feel in the mood for writing something like this rather than the massive back-story usually required to get to this point. Also not as long chapters as my other fic (the updates for that are usually twice this length) but I suppose it's more what works at the time and how much is going on.**_

_**Thank you and update quickly TekaWolf! Oh, and to the populous in general if you like/dislike this/think it could be improved, review it and I will love you for forever!**_


	3. I Heard Your Heart Beating

**_Chapter Two: I Heard Your Heart Beating_**

Sherlock felt as if his mouth were on fire. He'd expected the temperature difference, but the _sensation_…like the press of a thousand live wires and the wing beat of a flock of humming birds. He didn't know how he'd the courage – why it came _then_, of all times – but now that it had…

* * *

It was when he'd jumped. When he'd called John. That was when he first acknowledged it. The…feeling. He'd never been very good with emotions; it was one of the few aspects of deducing the human existence with which he had any amount of trouble. He had to start with the mechanics and work backwards. What other people seemed to do by instinct (facial recognition and so forth) he had learned to ascertain through muscle movement and outward behaviour, even going so far as to replicate it. The complexity of the feelings behind it, however…suffice to say, there were moments (many, if he were honest) where he didn't see something coming that _other people _would've found obvious.

Molly, for instance. Not that he'd exactly _missed _the way she simpered around him, but the truth was he could neither understand nor predict what her infatuation would cause her to do next. In fact, a similar case could be made for his interactions with almost everyone: he didn't understand their often moronic attachments and social politics so he inevitably ignored them. This, perhaps understandably, hurt people. Bred hostility. Resentment. Which didn't matter, of course, since he didn't care what other people thought of him. He thought little of them, after all.

Lonely wasn't something he'd ever considered important enough to entertain. He was always alone, in the end. They all left. Sometimes he valued them enough to feel some amount of remorse for hurting them, but more often he felt relief at their absence.

Then John. _Then John. _John whom he'd thought ordinary, who'd then shot someone less than forty-eight hours into their relationship. Saved his life. Usually people left after ten minutes, twenty if they weren't entirely repugnant.

_And then John._

At first he'd been intrigued. Then he'd experimented, pushed, prodded. Then things had settled down and he'd realised John was perfectly happy with him _being himself. _Oh, they fought and John yelled about the milk, about the head in the fridge, about the state of the bath, and got terribly confused when Sherlock disappeared into his Mind Palace for a day and a half and neglected to tell him.

And yet he still he _stayed. _And that was…good? He began feeling remorse more often when he did something to make John truly angry or upset. He played through the nightmares. He tried (with some success, though few statistically significant results) to be more considerate. Occasionally, he did something terrible without realising it and felt John's absence keenly.

This was having a friend. Because he didn't have friends…he had Mrs Hudson (his landlady), Lestrade (his colleague), and John (his friend). That he felt something for all three was an oddity in thirty-six years of life. Then time and adventures and near things and the rush of the work…

_John._

Was it friendship that'd made him weep at the thought of leaving him? The lesser of the two evils , for the hollow _pain _at the thought of the gun pointed at John's head had made him want to rush into his presence and never let him go. Was that friendship?

He'd jumped. That…_moment_ (the one poised on the edge when the world seemed to balance in a tilt) he'd felt as if his heart was being pulled from his chest. It wasn't _painful_ – the pain would come later in John's distraught attempts to reach him – but it was as if it were _reaching._

Putting out an arm as solid as the one he'd unconsciously (irrationally) thrust toward John in a vain attempt to touch him, _to tell him_; to try and make things right.

The world had gone up in flames after that. He'd fallen, then realised the shape of what was coming and realised he should've simply stayed. Oh, they would try, but not before the world burned.

And all he could think, all he could _feel, _just one name on a loop. One person in seven billion.

_John. His John. Only John. Always John. Please…_

Return. Shock. Joy. How was it possible to feel so content when he _knew _what was about to happen? Horror. Terror. Running. _Mrs Hudson should visit her sister. _Mycroft – now the fat bastard makes his uses apparent! Joy for all!

Running.

Darkness.

Pain.

_It was as if he'd been swallowed in black fire. He'd never feared death, never feared madness much, so long as it didn't interfere with the Work. No, he was losing John. That terrified him. The soldier tried denial, tried procedure, then finally gave Sherlock what he needed more than anything._

_Just him._

_Only him._

_He'd listened to his friend's erratic heartbeat and felt more sadness than ever in his life. John would be, once again, alone. And he would be plunged into the John-less dark. Sherlock clung to him as if it would be enough (irrational sentiment – John would be proud)._

But he wouldn't let John die.

Even if it meant forcing himself away from him.

John would live. _It was what had to be._

He'd considered telling the ex-army doctor of the feelings he harboured, but the likelihood of them being unreciprocated was too high. John cared about him; his actions bespoke considerable fondness. The man was practically cradling him, after all. But…_Sherlock almost couldn't bear to think it. Not now. It was too much. To painful. To astonishing only to have it torn away like leaves in the wind._

_Yet why lie now?_

Sherlock's…_love – yes, LOVE – _wasn't the same. Couldn't be. John was straight. And even if that wasn't a factor (people must _label _indeterminate states and people) he was scared. Scared that this was what (finally) drove John away.

Scared of being alone.

Scared that he was right.

Scared that he was _wrong._

Because what would he have done then?

_Did it matter so much now?_

* * *

Sherlock leapt away quicker than a rabbit scenting a stoat. _The hell had he been THINKING? HE WAS DEAD! _He'd never been lonely – but _oh _he'd felt the loneliness. The long days of _agony _after he'd awoken. He'd heard the Living's voice; talking to him,_ always talking._ And in the total, volcanic darkness of his head one name had surfaced. Like the sun rising over barren lands, flooding light back into his body.

_John. John John John JOHN…_he'd felt the hunger lift and the _anguish_ bloomat being separated from John.

Days. Weeks.

Learning. _Fighting. _Trying to recapture and rebuild what he had lost. Difficult, when his pain receptors, muscles, autonomic functions and senses didn't work properly any more.

_Oh, but JOHN. ALWAYS JOHN…always John…_

The first time he'd fed was on a zombie that'd _almost_ –

It still made him shudder in revulsion. What he was. What he'd become. What had nearly…_fuck what had he DONE?_

"Sherlock?" John called weakly from the kitchen. The ex-detective curled in on himself and pressed into the back of the sofa. His mind was almost blank with panic: not the black of the Hunger, but a misty white that whirled like a tornado.

"Sherlock…um…"

"It's perfectly fine, John, delete it if you must, and bear it no further mind, I certainly won't." He'd meant to sound aloof. Unaffected. It'd come out almost indecipherable. He curled further in and tried not to whimper. _He didn't want to be alone. Alone would mean the darkness again, and he was afraid of that now too. He didn't want to be alone. John..._

The warmth of the Living fell upon his cold, slightly blue-tinged, (mostly?) dead body and he felt the first tears. They slid down his cheekbone from where they'd pooled on the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock?"

The…_FREAK…_flinched at the hand that reached for his shoulder, shying as far into the worn couch as he could manage. John's hand jerked away and the _ex-human_ felt his eyes searching. He felt naked. Without even his own defences; his own observing eyes. Naked in the dark and terrified as a child.

"Um, that was a…a kiss, right?"

Wince. _Weep._

"Sherlock, look at me."

_Can't._

"Sherlock, please?"

Again, the Dead wouldn't move, but the Living was nothing if not persistent. He moved around so that he could see Sherlock's face (he promptly hid it in his hands) and his breath (perfectly even, but ragged, forced calm?) hitched. An abortive contraction of the larynx.

"Sherlock let me help you." John whispered, the pain Sherlock had seen last night pouring itself through those few words. "Please…_look at me._"

He couldn't refuse. Not now. After everything. After the dark and the pain and the _aloneness _and _oh John._

John who was so brave and who should be anywhere else.

"You shouldn't have stayed." Eyes still down as John coaxed his hands away and pulled him upright. "Shouldn't be here."

Hands cupped his face. Rough, but practiced. Surgeon's hands. Still not looking up.

"Shut up."

"Why?"

"Because it's water under the bridge." The ex-soldier said firmly. "I'm _here._"

Sherlock could only bow his head as another wave of grief crashed through him.

"I don't want to feel." He mumbled wretchedly, screwing his eyes tight shut. John's hands were unmoved.

"Yeah, I get that."

"_John…_"

He had to look. It was like lightening striking a mast. Rivers flowed down his neck, into his collar. John's eyes were beryl and storm-grey.

"_Don't go._"

"Sherlock, I don't –"

"_Please!_" He was shaking. He was shaking so much his newly revived pain receptors were telling him it was cramping his muscles. Like he could _give a fuck _now.

"I DIED!" He choked suddenly. "AND CAME BACK!"

"Yeah…" John said patiently, expression (crinkled eyes, tilted central axis) confused. "And then we had a zombie apocalypse…"

"I AM DEAD!"

John's face (_why couldn't he read it just a little better?_) softened, eyes all misted. _Oh God, he was leaving, he would leave, John – JOHN – no…no no NONONO –_

"The Dead," he murmured, voice sounding as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of gravel. "Don't," he smudged a rivulet from Sherlock's face. "Cry."

Sherlock stared, uncomprehendingly.

"I just told you I love you."

"Yes."

"And you just kissed me."

"_Yes_." The ex-detective shut his eyes with a whimpered word, all traces of hope and strength lost. John however…

"Um –" _was he _smiling?"Sherlock, I'm…failing to see the problem here."

"_What?_"

Even someone with _less_ innate intelligence than the man Sherlock had shared a flat with for a running total of just over two years (minus absences) would've seen – _umf._

John's hands slid seamlessly into his hair, threading through the blackened curls as the doctor's mouth pressed to his.

* * *

_**A.N: Again, should be studying, exam nerves, what do I do? Start writing fanfiction at three in the morning. I should mention that this scene was sort of based of a moment in "Lucid" (by Doctorg) that I thought was particularly effective (great Johnlock fanfic btw) and I did enjoy writing something similar from Sherlock's perspective.**_

_**This is shorter than I intended, but rather than write a long one, I think this'll work better with bits and pieces. Sort of...scenes and different events type thing. Not sure. For posterity, I'm just doing whatever the hell I like at this point (and if anyone still cares ;D)**_

_**Title is part of the lyrics of Cosmic Love (aforementioned inspiration for the title by Florence Welsh of Florence and the Machine) and I'm thinking of doing a few more that tie into the song. Titles that is, i'm not a big fan of songs written down as part of the story. Distracts from what is trying to be written - unless of course it's an original or something that is easily sung in accapella (cohesive poetry, not just a pop song written down). **_

_**So...I'm going for super angsty, slightly poetic, pick up on the storyline later on. Sort-of-dead-Sherlock and John having it off (yeah, sounds creepy to me too, but hey he's not QUITE dead, wink wink nudge nudge). Anyway, it's hardly worse than half the kinky stuff and, like I said earlier, I'm writing what I wanna write :)**_

_**So, does anyone want to review this? Go on...it'll prove that I'm not just the lonely mental writing fanfics...**_


	4. The Sorcery

_Don't worry, it's not: oh, but...MAGIC! The title is purely representative of the sort of 'in the air mystery' and metaphorical for the concept of love. Meant to pair with a planned chapter title "The Science". _

_**Chapter Three: The Sorcery**_

Loosely speaking, having John's fingers carding through his hair _shouldn't _have had that effect. But _oh it did._

"_John…_" He moaned softly. It was a good thing he no longer had to breathe.

"Oh you silly sod." The doctor muttered breathlessly, breath caressing Sherlock's lips as he sighed and resumed his desperate attempts to fuse their skin. There was tongue too, flicking out to pad and dampen. Sherlock barely knew the mechanics of how to do it right when he was alive. The one other time he'd really been trying it'd been all wet and clacking teeth and his jaw aching (something of a blow to his seventeen-year-old pride at the time). Yet _this_ was something else entirely. And it was perhaps a credit to the doctor that when Sherlock automatically opened his mouth (unsure of what else to do) he actually stopped.

"Magic."

"Hmm?" Sherlock felt himself leaning into John as if pulled by elastic.

"You don't have a heartbeat, but your capillary beds are pressurised." The soldier sounded as if he was floating. "Magic." He concluded simply. Sherlock scoffed.

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?" John breathed, bridging the miniscule gap once more. The ex-detective felt all arguments fly out the window (with the rest of his sanity) and all he could think was _John_. Warm, soft,_ John. _All care and finesse and _oh that's what you're supposed to do with your tongue! _The overload of data sprung back into being with the cool rush and _race _of John's tongue, mapping his mouth; first fast, now _slow_ –

A gasp a moan and an anguished cry seemed to crowd his larynx and burst from his glottis all at the same time. The resulting sharp gurgle left both of them confused, but Sherlock was beyond rational comprehension anyway with the fireworks going off in his head. He simply wrapped his whole body round John like a sloth round a branch and buried his face in his neck.

"_Sherlock?_" The doctor seemed utterly out of breath. "You okay?"

"Umf."

"_Jesus._"

There was a long pause in which Sherlock realised something strange was happening to the pressure in his skin. Specifically that it seemed to be draining and _gathering_ in a very specific place.

"_That's impossible"_ was whispered in the air between them. Who uttered it was difficult to say, but the ex-detective had only half his mind on the 'how' (considering the rest was getting consumed in the rapidly gathering lightning storm). For one horrible moment, he thought it was the Hunger; the sensation of being drawn to John so _strong_…

And then he inadvertently rubbed himself on John's legs as he was disentangling himself. The moan he let loose was as unchecked as it was unexpected, between his legs going from icy to on fire.

"Sherlock – are you okay?"

_As if he could do anything so lucid as speak!_

"Speak to me!"

The best he could manage was a hollow groan, electricity still bombarding the hitherto neglected parts of his (dead?) brain. Now in full Doctor Mode, the soldier gently brushed a hand over his face, eyes darting back and forth. There was a twitch in his cheek, minute; panic? More probably desperation, and after what they had just shared…_Sherlock cursed his nervous system's protestations! _With a huge effort, he reached to grasp John's hand, holding it to his face in as firm a grip as he could manage. Slowly – with John's grounding presence – the storm died to a level he could work with. He opened eyes he hadn't realised he'd shut.

"What's happening to me?"

He hated that it sounded so weak; so pathetic, but given the circumstances there was no-one he'd rather be weak or pathetic in the presence of, given the choice. John, for his part, was remarkably calm. Considering the flush still colouring his face (betraying the cocktail of hormones flooding his bloodstream). Sherlock sighed soundlessly as he removed his hand, looking critically over the ex-detective – lingering on the…err (impossible!) problem.

Not wholly unimpressive considering his personal lack of a supporting circulatory system. Or supposed lack anyway: impressive considering the _pump _was still off. He was tempted to press a hand to his chest to check on the status quo, but still couldn't move.

"I'd say it was obvious." John said finally. Sherlock stared.

"_Obvious?_"

The doctor, face unreadable, placed a deliberate, firm hand between his legs and any composure Sherlock might have regained flew out the window.

"Obvious."

"Jo…_J-John!_"

"Do you want me to stop?"

Sherlock choked. John sounded odd – distant almost. There was an air of…defeat? Concession? Concession to what? _He was moving his hand…gently, but – _oh GOD!

"Do you want me to stop?"

The ex-detective forced his eyes open; forced his brain to figure it out. He saw John: pupils blown so wide they'd consumed the iris almost completely, mouth a hard line, body shaking so slightly it seemed to thrum. Fingers cooler than they had been – blood rushing to the heart, away from the appendages; fear? It looked for all the world as if the man was perched on the edge of a precipice.

Sherlock looked down – jerkily, muscles refusing orders – and realised his whole midriff from his stomach to his thighs was quivering uncontrollably. Also that his knees had parted without his express say so.

"_Just…_"

"What? Just what, Sherlock? I'll stop in a second, but only if you tell me you _don't want this_." He flicked his wrist deftly to emphasise his point. The Undecided's spine arched.

"I want _you_," The words tumbled from him; a stream through rapids. "I want you – _ohgodJohn!_"

The soldier leaned forwards suddenly so that their heads knocked together, breathing as if he was having a panic attack.

"You've always had me." He whispered brokenly. Sherlock moaned desperately as the hand moved upwards to the waistband of his trousers. "Always." His eyes screwed shut. "Mad bastard." The hand plunged south.

Sherlock's throat all but closed. His mouth opened wide in a silent howl, but no noise came out (save for a small grunt as John swallowed it all in a kiss). John's hand moved until it had no room left. Until his other hand came and opened the fly of his trousers. Then, with as careful a caress as the doctor was capable of, John took him in hand properly.

Now, Sherlock wasn't as entirely innocent as every other cretin might have thought. He'd once had the hormonally overdosed body of a teenage boy after all and had…_experimented _from time to time. He'd never got the hang of _this_ either. And he'd never had the desire to do it or…well, _receive _it from anyone else. It had never occurred to him to desire other people.

_Then John. Then Jo…oh John. John. JOHN!_

The sound that left him was something of a whimper.

"Like that?"

He could only nod emphatically. He felt like his pelvis was dissolving.

"Good." John murmured against his lips. "That's…good. Sherlock?"

"Ugh…"

"Nothing can get into my bloodstream, right? That's the thing. Nothing directly in the blood."

"_Nhh – wha…?_"

"I love you."

John eased his singing (freezing/burning/electrified?) body to the edge of the couch, taking his surgeon's fingers from Sherlock for a moment to hold onto his arms. He was so gentle the ex-detective could've sworn he was handling glass, but there was grim determination in that face. Equal parts fear, defeat (relief?) arousal. With his wits scattered, he could barely begin to draw conclusions: _what was John doing? Why? What was happening to him? What was John going to do –_

"I love you." The doctor uttered it as a benediction as he kissed Sherlock once more.

"_John are you alright?_" He made out finally, forcing his eyes firmly open. John looked like a man falling; a man who welcomed the rocks at the bottom as he gave himself up to the void.

"I'm…" he suddenly looked unsure. Then it passed and the grim line of his mouth was back. He screwed his eyes shut and hooked his fingers into the waist of Sherlock's dress pants, easing them down and urging at the ex-detective's hips. Enthralled by what had overtaken his blogger, the silent order was obeyed, swathe after swathe of bluish-white revealed beneath the extant hair.

"You don't have to do this." Sherlock whispered faintly. "John –"

"Yes I do." John's midnight eyes met his. "You're the only thing left in the world that matters to me and if this is just me going mad about to die…then I don't care."

He dropped flush onto his knees, hot hands on Sherlock's naked thighs.

"John if this is just some kind of oncoming mental breakdown, perhaps it isn't all that advisable to be making such decisions…"

John's face went from grim to soft, smiling gently in a way that was quite frankly alarming.

"No time like the present."

"John –"

"I want _you_." There was such gravity behind the last word it left black holes in its wake. "The _world's_ gone mad and _I want you Sherlock Holmes_."

The man himself felt his sternum clench around a heart that didn't beat. More tears stung his eyes. Some fell. Strange, but _that _was when he believed it. John smiled softly again, running his hands slowly up the inner of his legs. Then he dipped his head and Sherlock Holmes _keened_.

* * *

_**A.N: Yup. In the mood to write this stuff, and quite honestly you have to be (and if you've got a bunch of actual story to write before you get to these bits it can be annoying). Um, any good? I enjoyed writing this, at least. Reviews?**_


	5. No Dawn, No Day

_**Chapter Four: No Dawn, No Day**_

John had decided to fall. In that moment. Consciously; purposefully. He felt as if he was having a heart attack in slow motion…and at the same time more alive than he had in weeks. Months. Here he was, finally _here_, all barriers gone. Any sense of right, wrong; fair and unfair, dissolved in the way he _felt._

This was _Sherlock._ He'd never, ever before felt anything like what he felt for that mad, beautiful man before him. And he never would again.

Yes, he was a man.

Which was…abnormal. For him.

He freely admitted that.

But never in his life would he have imagined that to matter so _little. _No, the thing that he was _terrified _to think of was the small and otherwise insignificant little detail that Sherlock was (technically) dead. _Had _died. Was a zombie.

He was about sixty percent certain he was about to infect himself.

Another thing he never imagined caring _less _about. If he could only feel _this, _just for a few short hours, then everything else would make sense. It would've all been worth it. Every bit.

This is what he thought as he swallowed the ex-detective down until the man's member hit the back of his throat. The noise Sherlock released at this new stimulation was nothing short of breath-taking, and John had revered their kisses before. He had been astonished at the revelation that he'd clearly never been kissed; never been touched. This ethereally gorgeous, brilliant man had died without ever having been with another human being: worshiped to the point where all the walls were no longer needed.

It explained a few things.

The noise went on and on…until John had to pull up for fear of choking. Upon this, it broke into a dozen, panting whimpers that shot through John's groin almost to the point of pain.

"_Jo…J-J-Joooohn._"

John didn't know what to do really – he'd never done this before – but he knew at least which parts would respond. And _oh _he wanted the man to respond. He wanted to take him apart and cling to him as they plunged. His lips pursed, putting pressure on the base of the head as he rose almost off, tongue pushing hard into the slit at the top.

Sherlock bellowed hoarsely as his hips jerked up, body undulating uncontrollably.

"Yes!_ Thereohgod…f-f-fuck!_"

John pushed back down with a filthy warbling noise and (from a random fact he obtained years ago) hollowed his cheeks and swallowed forcefully. It was hard not to gag – really hard – but this was important and John endured it for the way he'd robbed Sherlock of all sound once again. The thighs held firm beneath his palms weren't so much quivering as spasming, the hips rolling madly. Sherlock himself had long since fallen back, eyes clamped shut, mouth gaping.

Suddenly, John moved to massage his scrotum, and Sherlock shot up, eyes like saucers. His entire skin was moon-bright and he looked terrified. But whatever it was, John was none the wiser as the ex-detective's mouth moved fitfully, forming words without sound. If he'd been able to draw the breath to speak, John was sure he'd have been shouting.

And then he wasn't. John didn't let up for a second, his silent promise to Sherlock overriding everything else. He used both hands, his lips, his tongue and his entire mouth.

"John." The word was the barest of rasps, then his body arched away from the settee, rigid as an onset of rigor mortis. The ex-detective's hands were suddenly in a death-grip on John's shoulders, pelvis canting desperately into his mouth.

Not expecting it, the doctor thought for a second he was drowning, the fluid going straight onto the back of his throat. The sensation made him pull back sharply, but then he realised what it was.

It was cold. Which was probably what threw him, really. And the last of it that he could see dribbling out as Sherlock dropped, boneless, to the cushions was clear as the glacial melt.

"John," a small, soft smile played his bluish lips as he murmured on every exhale. "John John John John…John John John John…"

It seemed all he could manage.

"Hey," John ran a hand through the raven curls, wondering absently if he should make a list of which bodily systems were functioning and which weren't.

He'd never been more at peace.

"Sherlock?"

"_Oh god John…my John…_"

"Did I mention I love you?"

"Yes."

He'd half expected _'obviously'_, but the glaze settled on those pearly eyes seemed to transcend Sherlock's ire for repetition. In fact it seemed to transcend everything else; the horror and the implications. It made a bubble around the undead detective and left room in in it for John. Suddenly the doctor fond those eyes on him, sharply focused, yet the bubble remained.

"Incredible."

"What is?"

"You." He seemed to search for the right words. "You…I…"

John smiled serenely, tenderly stroking his face.

"Can you move?"

In answer Sherlock rose from the sofa and captured John's mouth, soft and needy. He was certainly a quick study – particularly mimicking John's best moves – and the result made John weak at the knees.

"_Take me to bed._" The words just spilled out.

"John?"

"_Please_."

"But –"

"_You said you wanted me…_"

"John –"

"Please." The soldier met Sherlock's eye, feeling tears prickle once again. But let no one say John Watson was a coward. Suicidal, probably, but not a coward. He _wanted_. And they might not get another chance. If this was him leaving it _a bit late_ to open his heart to the man he (against all odds) truly loved, than the fuck if he was going to leave anything out. Sherlock just stared at him, mouth hanging.

"If you…well, you know…"

"John, I'm still –" He stopped, apparently reaching a decision. "– changed. This," and he emphasised the point with another soft brush of the lips. "Doesn't alter that."

"If I die tomorrow," The doctor felt his voice drop to something like gravel. "I want it to be having _buggered_ or _been buggered_ by you." Sherlock seemed to shiver. "I want to be with you." He whispered, suddenly painfully vulnerable. "Take me to bed."

The man swallowed, hands trembling.

"I don't know how." He said bluntly, pressing his lips together as his eyes darted. John leaned in, sucking gently on the ex-detective's earlobe and _feeling_ him moan.

"I'll show you."

In as coordinated a fashion as he could manage, John pulled them both up, noticing acutely how Sherlock was still bare from the waist down when they pressed together; the Warm and the Cold. The ex-detective was still wobbly. And nervous – very nervous. He could feel it in the way Sherlock grasped the back of his shirt, clinging on as lips met like magnets unable to keep apart. Eventually they made it to a bedroom – _Sherlock's _bedroom (although by that point John was seriously wondering why the hell they hadn't just continued on the couch, _it was such a long way away_) and John finally succeeded in getting the last button off of that _ridiculous_ shirt.

A moan was drawn as John fixed his mouth to a blue nipple, gathering it between his lips. The ex-detective's knees trembled – a reaction to the point, as it happens, since it caused them to tumble over and onto the mattress. Hands wondered, grasping and pulling; all in effort to get closer while their mouths tangled desperately.

"_Jooohn…_"

The ex-detective's eyes rolled back. Even with being recently sucked off, he was already half-hard again. John smirked, trailing a hand between his legs and stroking.

"I don't know what god's listening –"

"Considering what we're using his or her great and powerful blessing to achieve I don't imagine I know either _despiteapassingknowledgeofthesubject_." Sherlock gasped, composure shattering once more. He whimpered as John swiped his thumb _just so _over the place his tongue had so recently explored.

"Sherlock," he kept one hand on the job, allowing the other to pass tenderly up his lover's pale side. "You are _so_ beautiful."

"_Why? _John…_god John_…I don't –"

John silenced him with a kiss.

"Hush."

He was still wearing far too many clothes. Sherlock had pushed still-nimble hands beneath his jumper, but it was time it was _off. _So off it went (with the ex-detective's help) along with his belt, and then his trousers, and then his pants. The Undead looked at him rapturously, a hand lingering on his hip as the other went to the star-burst on his left shoulder. He rose off the bed to look closely, fingertips just touching the dulled nerve-endings.

"Close range." He murmured, voice rasping slightly. "Clean, but not treated immediately. Time for infection to set in. Heavy scarring. _It sent you to me_." He finished at a whisper, pressing a delicate kiss to the raised scar. It was John's turn to shiver, though it fit that the part of his hardened, compact (stumpy) body he felt the most self-conscious about was the bit Sherlock picked to make him feel like a hero from a story.

"_You,_" the Undead growled suddenly. "The warrior; the healer. _Contradiction_. _You_ are the herald of Life and Death: gentle and steady and _lethal_. _You_, John, _you _are _breath-taking._" There were tears gathering in those pearly eyes once more. "_You_…I don't…" He looked down. "I don't _deserve_…"

John cupped the side of his face, stroking a thumb over the razor cheek bones as he leaned into the touch. He kissed his Sherlock, slowly by deeply, feeling that same calm insanity as before, lifting him higher than the darkness and doubt could ever touch him. No more tears.

Maybe there wasn't a god.

Maybe it was he who chose their fate now.


End file.
